Like many writers, I love a good bookshop.
That feeling you get as soon you take one step inside is just bliss… You’ve reached your sanctuary.
No matter how long you’re there, you can trick yourself in to thinking that nothing else is worth worrying about anymore (except how you can budget for the next addition to your book collection, of course).
Forget the outside world for a while, and just let the words housed within the four walls wash over you. You try imagine reading this, reading that. You wonder about the authors. How they came to be. What drives them? How on earth did they have enough self-discipline to write an entire book, rewrite it a few times, find an agent, an editor, get a publishing contract, and then promote the book to such an extent that they can actually sell the thing? It’s insane.
But it gives me hope.
Every time I’m in a place where every crook of space is taken up by physical books – arranged in towers on tables, cascading the walls in their categorised shelves, adorning the counters with helpful handwritten recommendations and plot summaries from the store’s staff – it reminds me of my goals, and sets me on track to continue pushing on with the project.
Shopfront of the London Review Bookshop (Bloomsbury) – has a great little coffee shop too!
Rambling and me 